


Swallow It Down

by phaelsafe



Category: Devour (2005), Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Dubious Consent, Episode: s06e20 The Man Who Would Be King, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phaelsafe/pseuds/phaelsafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is acting stranger than usual, and though Dean wants to help him out, he's having a hard time getting over that whole partnership with Crowley bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swallow It Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angel-kink](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=angel-kink).



> There is no beta, only Zuul.
> 
> ...first time writing smut, so please go easy on me.

He knows he shouldn't have turned around. Now the image of Cas standing in the middle of a burning ring, all the heartbreak and guilt evident in the orange flickering of firelight across his face will forever be burned into Dean's memory. Startling from his dream, Dean lifts his head off the table and swipes the back of his hand across his eyes. The books before him seem to mock his attempt to find an answer to the dilemma. He has been scouring them ever since he, Sam and Bobby had abandoned the angel in order to escape the incoming demon. 

As he rolls out of the uncomfortable position, his vertebrae crackle and muscles complain as he stretches everything into alignment. The blood rushes from his head causing lights to dance across his vision, and Dean slumps back against the cushion of the chair. Hands belonging to someone else occupy that space though. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

His training kicks in, and Dean represses the instinct to react to the low voice drawling so close to his ear. Castiel is invading Dean's personal space as usual, peering over his shoulder at the tomes displayed on the table. 

He shouldn't find the angel's presence comforting – not after everything that's happened -- and yet he wants to lean in, to be consoled. Instead, Dean angles himself away so that he is no longer brushing against Castiel's knuckles. “How'd you get in here?” he asks, forcing the anger into his voice in order to hide his surprise. 

“The angel-proofing Bobby put up on the house,” Castiel explains patiently, touching his temple to Dean's. “He got a few things wrong.” 

Dean jerks away at the words. “Well, it's too bad we got to angel-proof in the first place, isn't it?” Dean hurls out the pointed question. 

The sudden change in Castiel's demeanor is almost tangible. Castiel straightens and moves around to stand beside Dean, his attention switching to the deck of cards that lay scattered on the nearest book. 

“Why are you here, Cas?” 

A finger draws the topmost card away. Castiel cranes around to look at Dean before he answers with a soft yet unwavering voice. “I want you to understand.” 

Dean continues to stare at the wall. “Oh, believe me, I get it,” he says, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. “Blah, blah, Raphael, right?” He leans back into the chair and watches as Castiel slides the other cards away in order to read the page underneath. 

“I'm doing this for you, Dean,” he murmurs, his voice subdued and distracted as he studies the handwritten words. The book is old and cracked, full of information lost to history ages ago – although it's not surprising that Bobby managed to get ahold of it. Most of the books owned by the old hunter are- “I'm doing this because of you-” 

“Because of me?” Dean interjects with a snort. “Yeah,” he agrees sarcastically. He passes a hand across his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. “You've got to be kidding me.” 

“I've already said you can't fix this.” Castiel looks down to the card in his hand before turning back to Dean, a brow quirked in confusion. “But, Dean, carte de trionfi – divination?” 

“They're _tarot_ cards. They're spiritual interpretations of universal ideas,” Dean says. He can feel Castiel's eyes boring into him so he waves a hand at a random area of the table. “That's what it said on the stupid box. We both know they can't actually tell the future.” Though Dean was surprised that Bobby had a section set aside in his vast library for new-age, mumbo-jumbo, corporate bookstore crap. He shouldn't have been, especially when “I found something that predates the current use of them. Thought it could help.” The sullen, downward turn of his mouth negates the need to elaborate any further. “Turns out, it doesn't.” 

A noise of frustration escapes the angel. He pushes away from the table and wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders. Dean stiffens and tries to pull away, but Castiel tightens his arms before firmly pressing his chin into the other man's dark hair. He holds on until Dean relaxes. “What does your box have to say about this?” he asks, abruptly snapping the card into Dean's view. 

Dean accepts and examines it. There is a man and a woman standing in a grove of fruit trees. A snake curls through the branches of the tree behind the woman, and the couple looks up to a dark-robed, red-winged figure that blocks out the noon sun. The Roman numeral six is scrawled at the top, and the label at the bottom reads _the Lovers_. He reaches out, stretching under the protective circle of Castiel's arms and plucks the key out of the little cardboard box. After locating the correct description he reads it out loud. “The figure suggests youth, love, and virginity before they're corrupted by desire.” A soft snort from Castiel ruffles his hair, and Dean tilts his gaze up to him. 

“It's also a reminder that all choices carry consequences. It represents those choices that humans made that led to their expulsion from the Garden. And that humans need other humans in order to understand their nature.” Castiel can't hide the sadness that bleeds into his voice. He unwinds his arms from around Dean's neck and backs away from the human. 

The words have obviously pushed Castiel into such distress, but Dean doesn't quite understand why. He swivels around to face the angel. Castiel's brows are drawn together, and the melancholy set to his mouth- in an instant, the look is replaced with a saccharine expression, a smile that is cloying and sickly sweet. Dean's stomach drops with the inertia of Castiel's sudden and erratic mood swing. 

Without skipping a beat, Castiel shrugs out of his trench coat and tosses it into a nearby armchair. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and asks, “Do you remember when you took my-” 

“I swear to God, if you say virginity, so help me...” Dean interrupts, his his words trailing off in disbelief. The hunter doesn't know how to actually finish the sentence. His green eyes flash with a fierce heat, and he looks up. “Do you remember when you pulled me from the Pits of Hell and _seared yourself into my soul_ , Castiel?” 

Under other circumstances, he would find Castiel's cheesy attempt at flirtation amusing, but considering they should be in the middle of an argument regarding lies, betrayal, and the impending apocalypse, Dean feels downright creeped-out. The feeling grows when Castiel saunters toward him. 

“Details, details,” Castiel murmurs, still smiling as he balances on the edge of the hunter's lap. With one deft hand he opens the zipper-fly of Dean's blue jeans, and his finger slide beneath the elastic of Dean's boxers. 

Grabbing the angel by the wrist, Dean looks up with round, confused eyes. Panic is setting in, and he tries to quell the desire to simply go along with whatever Castiel has in mind. This is not how they fix things. Well, Dean resorts to solving his problems with sex frequently enough, but Castiel does not. Castiel is realistic and sensible and blunt, and he most definitely does not dodge responsibility like this. 

Dean opens his mouth to tell Castiel to knock it off, that he loves him, that they are family and can find an answer together; they can make out later when the end of the world is not, once again, at hand. “Shouldn't we light a candle or something?” 

With an impatient noise from Castiel, their pants are instantly gone. 

"Whoa, Cas, whoa!" Dean exclaims. This is so backwards! He likes where it's all going, and he hates to be the one to turn down his horny lover in order to do the whole grownup thing, but-- 

His train of thought is effectively derailed as pure sensation bolts across his skin and lights up his nerves. At some point Castiel had slipped his other hand under Dean's sleeve and is now pressing his palm against the mark he left on the hunter's shoulder. 

The shock of it knocks the air from Dean's lungs. He lets go of the wrist he had been holding captive, his own hands falling to skitter useless patterns across Castiel's hips before his fingers dig into the flesh there. Dean is immediately hard, unnaturally so; he tries to turn away from the intense contact, but Castiel maintains his tight grip. 

Gentle fingers slide across Dean's jaw, play at the hollow behind his ear. They tangle sharply in his hair, and as Castiel rises, he tugs Dean along into an uncomfortable stretch. When Castiel releases his shoulder, breaks the connection with the one physical reminder of the bond they share, Dean feels as though the rug has been pulled out from beneath him -- like he is slipping, falling. 

And then Castiel catches him, his hands cradling Dean by the back of the head. Their eyes lock, and Dean feels grounded once more, tethered to reality or the angel, but Dean can breathe again. At least he can until Castiel yanks him forward for a kiss and sinks down onto Dean's dick in a one sinuous movement. 

He gasps. How that should have _at least_ hurt him registers vaguely at the back Dean's head. Maybe some kind of heavenly mojo, or had Castiel plan--Castiel pulls Dean out of his thoughts by deepening the kiss, licking in past his parted lips. 

Castiel is hot and tight, and Dean thinks he might just be dying a slow, acceptably delightful death as the angel rocks back and forth, testing the range of motion provided by their awkward position atop the desk chair. 

And there's little Dean can do; Castiel has him pinned in place, has full control over the whole situation. Even with fingers clutched tightly into his sides, Castiel manages to lift himself up. Dean wonders if Castiel just has amazing muscle control or if he's actually using his wings to manoeuvre so well. Then Dean stops thinking altogether when Castiel guides himself back down, slow and measured, until he's pressed flush against the hunter's thighs. 

Castiel moves then, setting an almost deliberate and careful rhythm. A frustrated noise escapes from Dean, and he twists, trying to find any extra leverage he can. Castiel just flows with him, curls around him and swallows his resentful groan until Dean gives in and falls slack, his senses reeling. Dragging his teeth across Dean's bottom lip, Castiel straightens and pulls away. 

Dean's eyes wander up the flowing lines of pale neck to where Castiel watches him, silent and heavy-lidded. The inhuman focus tuned to him is unsettling, and Dean unconsciously fixes his teeth where Castiel's had just been; he bites into his already bruised lip. That seems to spur Castiel into action, and he quickens his pace, rolling his pelvis as he bears down. He arches suddenly, spine bending into a taut bow, but he doesn't stop moving. 

He knows Castiel found just the right angle. Dean can't help but marvel as the angel trembles over him. Every part of him aches for Castiel, and he wishes they could just melt together at this point if it would soothe his longing. Heat pools in his belly, and though he tries to hold on, he knows neither of them can last much longer. Not if the way Castiel's hands rove aimlessly across the breadth of Dean's shoulders is anything to go by, or how their cadence starts to stutter and break apart. 

The white shirt beneath his cheek is cool, and he shoves his face into Castiel's chest; yet, Dean finds nothing but hot skin as he runs his hands up along the column of the angel's back. He hides there, allows the pleasure to wind through him as he sweeps his hands over Castiel's shoulder blades. 

Castiel lets out an urgent keening sound, and Dean's head is wrenched back against the headrest. He catches the bewilderment in the blue eyes above him just before Castiel curves over him to crush their mouths back together. Their teeth clack together until Castiel regains his coordination, turns the kiss ditry and wet as his tongue plays across the roof of Dean's mouth. 

There's a harsh bunching at his shoulder, and Dean hears the seams of his shirt rip as Castiel tugs at his sleeve with more force than is necessary. He tears his mouth away, and the angel slides his lips along Dean's jaw. "No! Wait, Cas, that's--" his words devolve into an incoherent moan when Castiel sucks hard on his agitated pulse, bites down on the soft skin just above his collarbone where neck turns to shoulder; then, with a growl, he aligns his fingers over the hand-shaped scar and possessively grips Dean's shoulder. 

As Castiel forces their link open, Dean's vision goes blindingly white, and he can no longer hear anything over the static in his ears. He can feel everything Castiel is doing to him, everything he is doing to Castiel, feel _everything that Castiel feels_ as his grace rushes through the hunter. 

Swaying, a furious shudder rolls through Castiel and he clenches around Dean. When he falters, Dean catches him. His soul reaches out to embrace Castiel as he comes apart, and the angel pulls Dean right over the edge along with him. 

Several minutes later, when Dean can see again, Castiel is leaning heavily against him. His mouth is pressed to Dean's ear as he whispers something softly in Enochian. He assumes it's supposed to be soothing, and it is, but the hand Castiel has clamped over his mouth really isn't. 

Dislodging the digits from his face, Dean finishes, "--cheating. Jesus, Cas!" He huffs, trying to catch his breath. He looks down at Castiel, tries to makes sense of the complicated mess that is their limbs and finally gives up. His voice turning serious as he asks, "what the Hell was that all about?" 

"I was using my wings," Castiel says casually. "I'm not used to anyone touching them." 

Figures he'd only get a partial answer, but Dean files away the information for later. Castiel's wings weren't something he'd really considered 

Dean's lashes flutter shut as Castiel pulls off. He winces as cool air replaces the warmth Castiel had supplied, misses it already, especially with the reminder that his shirt is now a sticky, ruined mess. Neither his heart nor his lungs have any inclination of working properly in the near future so he opens his eyes instead. 

Castiel is fully clothed again as he edges around Dean to the armchair. He looks calm and collected, as though he'd just arrived. Fluctuations filter across their bond, shivery oscillations that send Dean's heart racing each time, so he knows Castiel is faking this unruffled mask. He swivels the chair around in order to keep the angel in front of him. "What, no cuddling?" he quips as Castiel shrugs the tan trench coat back on. 

"You got what you wanted, Dean," replies Castiel, adjusting his long sleeves. "And now I can get back to what needs to be done." His eyes flick up to meet Dean's before bouncing down to the floor. 

Stunned, Dean's brows fly up. "You made love to me thinking I'd change my mind about your plan?" He realizes what words he's chosen, uncharacteristic as they are, but he doesn't correct himself. 

"No, I _fucked_ you because Crowley thought it would get you off our backs for a little while." 

"Crowley?" Dean's voice cracks as anger replaces his astonishment. "You're such a child! Just because you can do whatever you want doesn't mean you should!" 

Castiel steps forward, planting himself between Dean's knees. He threads his fingers into the other man's hair, turning Dean's face up toward his. Dean tries to pull away, but Castiel tightens his grip and waits until the hunter looks up before saying "I know what I'm doing, Dean." 

Dean searches Castiel's face. "Don't do this. Just don't. I shouldn't even have to use logic on you here," he says, swallowing around a lump that has formed in his throat. 

Castiel tilts his head. "I don't understand." His eyes narrow as he thinks over the words. 

"Sam, Bobby, and you. Y'all are family. So please, you have got to trust me here," he pleads and wraps his fingers around the wrist near his temple. 

Sighing, Castiel leans in, his eyes falling closed as he presses his forehead to Dean's. "Like you care, Dean," he says, his voice resonating with emotion. He ignores the pain that flashes across Dean's face, across their link. He kisses Dean and adds,"You've never really cared about me. No one ever has." 

And Dean can read it in Castiel's face that even though he's forcing himself to say the words, he believes them to be true on some level. "But-" 

"I'm sorry," Castiel says softly. He doesn't specify what he's apologizing for, and then he's gone. 

Dean presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, attempting to hold back the prickling of tears. He drops his hands into his lap. "I'm sorry, too," he says to the empty room.


End file.
